


It's Over...Isn't It?

by SaxSpieler



Series: Verǫld Vǫrðr [23]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Final Battle, Gen, Last words, Sliske's Endgame Spoilers, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 11:25:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9233117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaxSpieler/pseuds/SaxSpieler
Summary: Where it all ends...or begins.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to write the climactic cutscene and add dialogue to fill it out. Also, added in a mention the Staff of Armadyl to address a continuity error.

Lance crashes against staff. Metal against elder-woven wood.

A twist, a flourish, and the lance is sent flying.

She’s off balance from that move, teetering on those useless legs of hers, and a quick whack to the shoulder is enough to bring her to her knees.

_Oh yes, I remember this…_

His fist impacts against her skull.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Before it can strike a fourth time, it’s caught by her hand, and she twists his wrist around, eyes blazing that wonderful, strident aquamarine that was multitudes fiercer than the fires of Freneskae.

It stings, but only mildly.

The cannon blast to his chest, however.

_That hurts._

He finds himself skidding on the stone, the staff wrenched from his grip, robes burnt and smouldering, and he’s back on his feet in an instant, magic tessellating into existence in the palms of his hands.

_Aha! She’s picked up the Staff of Armadyl!_

_Good girl!_

_Now…_

_Now, we end this, my little warrior!_

***

She’s not entirely sure why she snatched the staff from the ground. Of course, her lance lies too far away to retrieve, and she had knocked the staff from Sliske’s grasp just breaths ago, but still the question remained.

Was it poetic? To end this fecht with the stick that started it?

Was it ruthlessness? Attacking an unarmed - but no less dangerous - opponent with an elder weapon?

Was it instinct? Arm oneself with anything at all to even have a hope of survival?

Perhaps it was all three.

Perhaps it was none of them.

Perhaps it was just the terrible, burning need for all of this to be over.

She swings the staff in tight, controlled arcs like Vannaka had shown her just after she’d lost her arm to Nomad.

He bats it away effortlessly, striking back with that rancid shadow magic he’s so fond of.

Each strike is returned, mirrored.

A clip across the shoulder, a fist in the stomach.

Then, he’s on his back.

She has a clean shot.

_Do it!_

_Take it!_

She drives the staff downward.

It’s deflected by a hand, sinking into the stone next to that smug rictus, and a boot arcs skyward into her chin.

Tumbling back, she rights herself, her grip on the staff as strong as it’s ever been, and she sees Sliske charging forward, shadows flickering menacingly around his form.

It seems familiar, this.

The final charge.

The coup de gras.

_Make it count, kid._

A strike, nearly missing her face.

A dodge, a step to the side.

An opening. A chance.

A war cry.

A vicious swing.

The staff connects with Sliske’s face with a crack, and she whirls around and stabs.

Twin prongs of gold sink deep into his abdomen.

His scream pierces her ears.

Splinters cut into her palm as she pushes further and further.

At some point, she screams as well, adrenaline and determination reaching a peak.

Soon however, their cries peter out.

_It’s over…_

_Isn’t it?_

“Ha,” he huffs, the ghost of a laugh peppering his voice. “Good show, good show…”

She doesn’t answer.

“So. What now?” His eyes meet hers, crinkling at the edges owing to the grimace-grin twisting his face. “Are you going to show me the ‘mercy’ you showed your _anima sanitatis?_ Are you going to just conk me over the head and hope I stay down? Are you going to do what you did to poor old Gregorovic… _again?”_

She still doesn’t answer. Her hand tightens around the staff, and she feels blood soaking the hide of her gloves where the splinters had speared through.

“Oh, my little warrior…you hesitate.” His voice is quieter now, more measured. Like a predator lying in wait. “A World Guardian should not hesitate when confronted with their arch nemesis, should they?”

“Yer not…”

“What was that?”

“Yer _not_ my arch nemesis…”

“Oh come now, Finley. Don’t tell me you’ve grown to like me back after all we’ve been thr-”

“…not anymore.”

“What?”

“You’re not my ‘arch nemesis’ or whatever. Not anymore.”

It’s Sliske’s turn to stay silent, his grin faltering along the edges.

“I’m _done_ with you,” she says, and she’s never been more sure of her words. “I’m done with all this. You can rot in Jaldraocht, get locked up by Zemouregal, or Death and Icthlarin can deal with you. I don’t particularly care.”

Sliske’s grin is gone now. Only the grimace remains.

“You’re not my problem anymore.” Her hand relaxes - she moves to release it and simply walk away.

Raucous, strained, pain-ridden laughter stops her.

“Oh no, Finley. You’ve got it all wrong. I will _always_ be your sweet, little _problem.”_ His grin is back, wild and wicked as he grips his end of the staff.

And _lunges._

It slips in Finley’s grip. The star at the end skewers easily through her armor, her sternum, and what feels like a lung.

A yelp, strangled by blood, is the only thing that makes it out of her.

For a brief, yet somehow boundless moment, the two are linked.

_World Guardian and Praefectus Praetorio._

Sliske’s hand rests on Finley’s cheek as he pulls himself further onto the staff to place his mouth by her ear.

“And, as I said before,” he whispers haltingly. _“You will always be mine.”_

With a final laugh, grinding and tired, he solidifies and sublimes into loose ash that lingers in the air.

Choking and sputtering, Finley yanks the staff from her chest with a too-audible squelch and collapses to the stone, the staff clattering out of her reach.

_It’s over…_

_Isn’t it?_


End file.
